


Many mansions

by Royal_Ermine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, James Bond - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Vicar of Dibley
Genre: Bible Quotes, British, British "Bucky" Barnes, British Character, British English, British Stucky, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Diplomacy, Double Cross, Elderly James Bond, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake Character Death, Faked Suicide, Feels, Fluff, Geraldine Grainger (Vicar of Dibley), Grief/Mourning, Grieving Steve Rogers, Heroic "Bucky" Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Religious "Bucky" Barnes, Spies & Secret Agents, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Triple Cross, United Kingdom, United Nations, Wakes & Funerals, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royal_Ermine/pseuds/Royal_Ermine
Summary: Steve Rogers begrudgingly travels to London to discuss the Sokovia Accords.  Little does he know that a character from his past will emerge and his life will never be the same again.





	1. "Make do" and mend

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This story starts semi-canon and then takes a wild lurch into surreal British fantasy featuring Roger Moore-era James Bond and Vicar of Dibley references. You have been warned!
> 
> 2) This is my first fanfic so please forgive any initial mistakes in the genre.
> 
> 3) I am British, so most spellings and idioms are in British English. Dialogue attempting an American English style might not be entirely accurate as a result, for which I apologise to readers in advance
> 
> 4) Some expletives (particularly the “F” word) have been used in dialogue with high emotional content for the purposes of emphasis and authenticity. An earlier draft removing these references suffered by their absence and, bearing in mind the adult nature of the themes within this story, I elected to retain them. Again, please may I apologise if this decision causes any offence.
> 
> 5) I have elected to use “British” rather than “English” in most descriptions. I am aware that some individuals prefer “British” and some “English” for various geographical, cultural and political reasons. I acknowledge and respect their preferences, but as the author of this work, assert the right to make my own choice on the grounds of artistic licence.

Steve just felt empty and bitter. He pushed himself to rise above the sheer frustration of it all, but the whole affair smacked of ingratitude. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Hydra was behind it, but even they couldn’t have envisaged the acrimonious hair-splitting side-show that the Sokovia Accords were generating. 

In the past century, life had been simpler, ever so much simpler. But as Peggy quite rightly pointed out, things had changed, and the only way forward, the only way to stop going mad, was to start over; to reinvent yourself. Steve didn’t care much for change, not when it meant messy compromises and second bests. 

This is precisely why it rankled when he was “persuaded” by Tony (though it felt more like a brilliant piece of cunning outmanoeuvring, laced with emotional blackmail) to represent his viewpoint at a hastily convened diplomatic meeting in “neutral” London. The location didn’t bother him too badly, in fact the more he thought about it on the ‘plane going over, the more he warmed to the idea. The UN tried to corner the market on neutrality but, with all its officialdom, it had come to represent - to Steve at least - another side of the petty bureaucracy that characterised the Accords. And, deep down, though he loathed admitting it - even to himself - London evoked bittersweet memories of another time, of Peggy and of Bucky, and of a people struggling to be free from oppression. You wouldn’t have caught Sir Winston Churchill snubbing superheroes for political reasons had he access to them. He was a practical man squeezing every drop of spirit out of a tired nation living off rations and patching up everything just to keep fighting on. Perhaps today’s society needed to reconsider that “make do and mend” attitude before they rushed headlong into signing away the strength of their superheroes…or perhaps he was just becoming a grouchy old dinosaur.

As if on cue, the flight hostess abruptly stirred him from his reverie to offer him one of those iPad/iPod gizmos Tony was so fond of, to while away the time over the Atlantic. Politely he declined. He had his memories.

It didn’t take him long to pass through border checks, avoiding the hassle of the luggage carousel. Slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder, he whistled happily into the car rental office. The meeting wasn’t for another day, and he’d expected to spend the spare time resting up, old man that he was, but his thoughts had provoked a sharp pang of nostalgia, and the last thing he needed right now was several hours pacing up and down in the admittedly comfortable solitary confinement of a cramped room in a stuffy central London hotel.

“Where’s a good place to get away from it all, within an hour’s drive or so?”, he asked the man behind the counter

“Greenwich is quite pretty in springtime”, came the reply, “And of course the kids are still at school right now, so it should be fairly quiet…for London, that is”, he added, with a chuckle.

It wasn’t too difficult to find a bit of peace and quiet mid-afternoon, with the lunchtime commuters back at their desks. Perching himself on a park bench halfway up a steep him, under the shade of a gnarly old sycamore tree, he swung his gaze towards an ornate building at the very top with what appeared to be a metal tramline running through it.

“That’s the Greenwich meridian line…the beginning and the end of time”, a voice drifted to him from behind. He turned and saw a very distinguished looking older gentleman smiling kindly at him.

“I’m sorry sir, is this your seat?” Steve knew from personal experience the habits which form around daily routines when you’d lived out many years. He didn’t want to break into anyone’s rituals as an occasional tourist.

“Goodness no”, came the reply. “But now you come to mention it, I’d appreciate a good sit down, Greenwich hill’s a hard climb when you reach my age.”

Having carefully lowered himself onto the bench beside Steve, he looked him up and down almost approvingly. Steve flushed a little, not entirely sure of the older man’s motives. As if guessing his thoughts, he said:

“No, you don’t know me, young man, at least not personally. But I rather think that you know someone that I do, and, well, I’ve heard so much about you over the years that my curiosity finally got the better of me.”

Steve knit his eyebrows together, prompting the gentleman to continue, “Sorry if that sounds a touch “cloak and dagger”. It’s just that it’s been a very long time since I’ve been in the “special agent” business and I do rather miss it.” He turned to face him, wincing a little, perhaps from some joint pain “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Rogers, my name is Bond….”

“James Bond”, Steve finished, smacking himself squarely on the forehead as he immediately recognised the retired British special agent. He’d heard of him by reputation, of course, who hadn’t? But, even though he’d probably not sported a dinner jacket in years, he retained the unmistakable suave distinction of his glory days. It was a bit of secret wish fulfilment to actually meet him.

“I take it this isn’t just a co-incidence?” Steve asked

“How very perceptive of you”, James replied drily, arching an eyebrow in that delightfully stereotypical way of his “Actually, that’s rather impolite of me to say. The world is full of choices. You could have chosen to go straight back to your hotel, or to use a different car hire firm. The man at the counter could even have fluffed his lines in directing you here…wouldn’t be the first time. You just can’t get the staff these days”, he added with a wry smile. “But sometimes, you just have to trust to people’s choices.” 

“This isn’t going to be a speech about life’s journey and the twists and turns that get us here, because if it is, I’m going to start pointing out all the obstacles people put in your way”, said Steve, bitterly recalling the Accords that had brought him there.

James nodded sagely, “Oh, there’s plenty of those, no doubt of that. People have always deployed fiendish plans to frustrate the course of truth and justice…even of love. He certainly knows that, but he also knows that the greatest obstacles can be the fears lodged deep in your own mind.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” smiled Steve “I take it this pronoun has a name?”

James gingerly placed his hands on his knees and rose with a little difficulty from the park bench. “Would you care to follow me, young man?”

On his approach, the café door with the “closed” sign on it inched open to admit them. The cosy homey space stuffed with ill-matched chintz and smelling faintly of dust and stale scones was duly deserted, save for the polite young lady who let them in, and then let herself out. James locked the door behind her and called out “You can come out now, he’s here”

“Is it…is it really him?” came a hoarse whisper from behind the counter

“All’s well” James reassured

“My God” exclaimed Steve, his jaw dropping like lead

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes nervously edged his way from behind the serving hatch, his eyes downcast, whether from shyness, fear or shame, he couldn’t tell. Steve gasped at the shock of seeing the man he loved and lost a lifetime ago, standing there as clear as day, right before his very eyes.

Bucky tried to speak again, but his voice box failed him. Tears leaked from his eyes.  
Desperately, he tried again “I thought…I thought that you were dead, Steve. Oh God, I thought I had lost you forever. They…they told me you were dead…it was only recently, when you were brought back that I…I…” his voice cracked with raw anguish as his body shuddered violently. Steve thought his heart would surely break.

Blinded by tears, James helped guide him over to a table, and Steve rushed to join him. “I think perhaps this is my cue to leave”, said the old man quietly. Steve was too intent on Bucky to notice, but the retired spy was one of those old fashioned gentlemen who knew discretion was the better part of valour, and when Steve next turned around, he was gone.

Bucky looked well, physically at least. Other than the obvious lack of an arm, that is. He was dressed smartly in a sandy tweed jacket (the arm-hole sewn up so neatly you’d never have known it had been there) complimented by dark sage corduroy trousers with the tiniest hint of a flare at their base. His breast pocket sported a yellow spotted pocket square, matching his silken bow tie. He looked every inch the English country gentleman. Steve also hadn’t failed to notice Bucky’s flawlessly cut-glass British accent, which made most BBC announcers sound positively sloppy.

“Bucky”, Steve swallowed hard, straining to get the words out “I thought you were dead too. When you fell from the train…no-one could have survived that.” Then, a moment later, he continued hotly “I wanted to go back, I was desperate to go back…but they told me you were dead.”

Overjoyed though he was, Steve’s heart shrank within him. He had heard the rumours. Before he came back, there had been a contract killer, a Soviet agent linked to Hydra. By the physical resemblance, there had been strong rumours that it might have been Bucky, but Steve could never have know for sure because the agent stopped operating nearly two decades before his return. Besides, he could never bring himself to believe that it was true. Not his Bucky, no matter what they said had been done to him.

As if reading his mind, Bucky sighed and, in a shaky voice, said “I really think I should try to explain” 

Steve smiled as kindly as he could, placing a reassuring hand on Bucky’s. “Only if you want to, and only what you can. Please, please Bucky don’t make this any more painful for yourself.”

“I have to try” said Bucky, louder than he probably intended, because he added, more quietly “…it hurts like hell to say these things to you of all people, but I owe you the truth. Only then can you decide what to do with this.” Steve smiled and nodded, thinking how even an angry Brooklyn boy sounded better with a British accent.

As if to distract himself from the opening portion of his story, Bucky began speaking whilst setting out the tea things that had been thoughtfully placed to the side of their table.

“I didn’t think I would survive that fall either. Honestly, I expected to die. And when Hydra found me, I wished a thousand times that I had died. A lot of the things that happened back then are just feelings and sensations rather than memories, and all of them terrible” He scrunched his eyes up for a moment, brushing the silken floppy hair from his forehead, before continuing “They made me a new arm. It was robotic. I think they wanted me to be grateful, but really they were just implanting something robotic on me, so they could treat me as their robot, as their “asset”. I found out later that they did unspeakable things to my mind, turned me into a puppet that could hurt and main and kill…and all at their vacant empty command. 

He looked up into Steve’s eyes “Oh Steve, there’s no redemption for me. I have the blood of innocents on my hands.” He looked down at his remaining hand bleakly. 

“Bucky…” Steve began, but he didn’t know how to continue

“By the late 1980’s, my methods were well known. I was getting tired. I was being frozen, thawed, refrozen, re-thawed many times each year. They were scrambling my mind so much that I didn’t know what I was doing, let alone who I was. Again, I can’t remember much of this, just the pain, the weariness, and the endless longing…”

“The longing?” queried Steve

“The longing for it all to be over and (he blushed furiously) the longing to be with you, Steve. I loved you so much. I had no desire to outlive you. Sometimes, at the end of a mission I’d talk about you to my handlers. They’d show me pictures to try and prove to me that you were missing, presumed dead. Much as they twisted my mind, I could tell from the tone of their voices that, in this at least, they were telling what they honestly believed to be the truth. You were dead and I dearly wanted to join you, Steve.”

“Oh Bucky. Shit. Bucky.” Steve’s mind was wrackled with guilt, together with a rising sick feeling of uncontrollable rage at the excruciating pain Bucky had suffered, and continued to suffer in his memories.

“In the end, I started making mistakes with my targets. I pulled my punches, shot wide of the mark. I thought you would approve of my disobeying their casual orders to murder people, Steve…and I thought if I made enough mistakes, they would end my suffering and send me to join you…”

Bucky swallowed down his tears and, adopting a near nonchalant air, poured the milk into their teacups, continuing almost matter-of-factly.

“So, Hydra decided I was more liability than asset. The Soviet bloc was crumbling anyway, and so they abandoned it…and me at the same time. One moment I was the feared “Winter Soldier”, a legend used to scare little children into being good at the breakfast table, and the next I somehow found myself floppy and suffocating in a rapidly defrosting cryo tube deep in the hold of a ship bound for goodness knows where. The workman who crowbarred open the packing crate to see me in that tube gasping like a landed fish when the ship was impounded at Southampton Docks must have had the shock of his life.” 

As he wielded the teapot, Bucky continued “They took me to a hospital. As you probably know, British hospitals are run by the state, the “National Health Service”, they call it. Most of their facilities are Victorian era, with just enough money to pay for the buckets to catch the rain that streams through their leaking roofs” He smiled wistfully to himself “I rather liked those hospitals. They reminded me of myself. Past my best but still getting propped up somehow”

“To begin with I was in agony. My arm was gone, presumably an asset that Hydra could reuse somehow. But all the real pain was buried deep in my mind. They’d scrambled things up pretty badly in there. I was lucky. The psychiatric hospital they sent me to had some really good doctors, and my psychologist traced my details and tried to get me some specialist help. That was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing came from the British Secret Service. They got their top people working out what had been done to me, and how to address it. Our friend James spent quite some time with me. Did you know that the Bonds continue working even after they’ve retired?” Steve nodded “It’s good to know their experience and talents aren’t wasted. He said it had to be the same with me, but at the time all I could think about was that I didn’t want to kill any more.”

“That’s understandable” said Steve, struggling to control his feelings as he sipped distractedly at his tea.

“The curse, I’m sorry to say, were the American Secret Service. They came over all loud and demonstrative, demanding that I was extradited back to New York for debriefing and potential prosecution. I wasn’t too worried about my facing execution Steve, it would have been a happy release to leave this world and join you in the next, but having to face and relive my crimes again…the hate I felt for myself was, still is, beyond words as it is.”

“But why was nothing done to help you? Why didn’t any of the superheroes…”

“I honestly don’t think they even knew about it”, Bucky finished Steve’s thought “These were petty bureaucrats, wanting to make a name for themselves by taking the Winter Soldier’s scalp. Had they succeeded, then you would have known, but by then it would already have been too late.”

“So, what happened?”

“Luckily, they were up against some big guns at this end. James brought in M and let me tell you, you don’t quibble with that lady! She’d done her homework beforehand. Quoting that international law so beloved of the UN (Steve smiled to himself at Bucky’s reference) she explained that I had been “missing presumed dead” for so long that, legally speaking, I didn’t have a nationality anymore because I no longer existed. As such, I could claim asylum in the first country in which I landed. My ship hadn’t crossed the Atlantic, and neither should I.”

“She sounds like one formidable lady”, Steve grinned

“Believe me, she is”, beamed Bucky “And Q did his best to help too. He proposed manufacturing a new robotic arm for me, but after my experience of the slaughter I had caused with the first one, I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about adopting another, and the NHS prosthetics are hefty lumpen things with no real functionality. I have one which I occasionally clip on if I have to attend a children’s birthday party or similar where I don’t feel much like being stared at, but for the most part I can manage perfectly well without, although I must confess it took weeks to master tying these bow-ties one-handed!”

Steve nodded, acknowledging Bucky’s new-found sartorial elegance.

“However, where Q really came into his own was with my poor addled brain. By this stage, they’d worked out part of what Hydra had done to me, and most importantly, about the code words they could use to activate my killer instincts. There wasn’t any way to remove those codes, as the commands were too deeply embedded. However, after a lot of research, Q was able to devise an option to displace the memories with new ones. “

Steve cocked his head, keen to understand, but clearly worried that he wouldn’t

“I know. It’s not easy to explain, but I’ll try” 

“Okay Buck”, Steve encouraged

“You see, some memories are very strong because they’re traumatic. That’s why so many soldiers suffer from PTSD. Other memories are strong because they mean a lot to you, like the way I felt…I feel…about you” (he blushed and lowered his eyes) “So, although some powerful memories are beyond your control, other ones you can choose for yourself. His theory was that, by providing me with additional life memories, I could choose to make those memories more important to me than the diabolical implants Hydra had put inside of me. That way, if the code words were ever used against me, I could simply - and legitimately - think to myself “I’m not that person any more” and the power of those words would be neutralised.

Steve echoed James’ arching eyebrow trick “That sounds plausible but did they think that would actually work?”

Bucky sighed “There were no guarantees. They didn’t exactly have a laboratory full of brainwashed Hydra ex-killers to test it out on first, and they knew it would be too dangerous to ever try the code words out on me afterwards. Moreover, I knew that the very process of choosing and providing memories for me to adopt was going to take many months and involve my going back into cryo again for a few years to feed those memories in, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to that after I’d practically drowned in one the last time I was under. I spent quite some time talking it over with my NHS psychologist, and also a very friendly Church of England vicar. I think perhaps she helped most of all.

“Bucky and a lady vicar?” Steve teased gently, “I didn’t think I’d ever hear those two concepts coming together in one short sentence.” Steve’s face coloured suddenly as he asked, quickly “And did you talk to her about how you felt about me?”

Bucky nodded. The Church of England has a bit of a problem with the physical aspects of some kinds of love, but that’s because it’s an institution tasked to unite people in lots of different countries, including parts of Africa where that kind of activity isn’t exactly welcome. But most individual ministers don’t share those views. She was - still is - absolutely lovely. In fact she encouraged me to make sure you featured highly on the memories I wanted to retain, even though - at that time - we were all certain that you were dead. She said having a positive memory of you might help me move on and find love elsewhere if I was ever lucky enough for lightning to strike twice. Of course, in the event, lighting struck twice in the very finest kind of way when you were found alive again.

“But at that point you were still in cryo?” asked Steve

Bucky nodded “I was so scared going in again, but all I could think was that you would have wanted me to have the second chance I’d been offered. You would have wanted me to take the British decision and “make do” and mend” my tattered life.

Steve nodded “Of course I would, Buck” 

“So…I carefully selected new memories I could choose to believe in of my own free will, nostalgic British memories of a gentle sunny childhood with you as my childhood friend and, later, my wonderful boyfriend. It’s difficult to know why I chose this nation in particular”, he continued, vaguely waving his hand like a benediction on the dusty chintz. “No-one here pushed me into it. As M said, I was a stateless individual who had the right to live anywhere I wanted, although obviously I had “landed” here first. 

But Britain was the staging post for my first excursion into battle and, for some sweet reason; I thought it fitting for it to become the stronghold for my journey out of it. True it is that America won the war we fought together Steve, but Britain’s still a jolly nice place to live and the slightly “patch up to make do” shabbiness made a battered old second-best assassin like me feel right at home. I’d discussed what kind of future I might like to try for with my psychologist by that point of course, and I had resolved that I would strive towards something positive to oppose the war and conflict that had held me prisoner for so long, and aim for peace in the only way I knew possible, through the messy compromises of diplomacy. As a soldier, it certainly wasn’t the most obvious of second career choices, but I supposed that if I could reinvent myself and renounce the violence that I’d inflicted on others, then perhaps I could help beat some other people’s swords into ploughshares as well. I was able to get a head start on some legal and ethical training through the memories I chose during those nearly three years in Cryo. During that time, of course, they had found you too.”

“Did they tell you when you came out of it?”

“Other than asking how many fingers they were holding up as I was coming round, it was practically the first thing they said to me. They’d thought about introducing some memories for me whilst I was still under when it was confirmed you’d been found, but they worried that I’d disbelieve those memories and it would ruin the whole process. Besides, there was no way of knowing that you’d even respond to my feelings should I ever get the chance to meet you, let alone express them to you.” 

Steve found himself in a difficult position. He desperately wanted to interrupt Bucky immediately, but Bucky ploughed headlong through his narration, clearly terrified of what he would hear back. Trusting his instincts, Steve held his tongue for just a little while longer.

“…then of course…” Bucky barrelled on breathlessly, “I realised that I’d never be in that position if I didn’t rebuild my life and make some kind of a difference. I was so scared that you’d be so disgusted by my actions as the Winter Soldier and never want anything to do with me again that I threw myself into my studies. Within a year, I’d passed the British citizenship test and was accepted into the diplomatic service. Last year I completed my Peace Studies degree and was working as an aide to the British UN delegation, albeit from here, as the British Secret Service continued to be concerned that there remained a possibility I would be detained and prosecuted if I ever set foot on US soil again.”

Bucky’s surging river of words slowed to a trickle. He looked up guiltily at Steve. “I wasn’t sure of anything, Steve. I thought perhaps I’d bungled it. Here I am, in unrequited love with Captain America, and I can’t even visit America any more. And to cap it all, I’m an unprosecuted mass murderer. I was so scared to speak with you. I was such a bag of nerves, poor James had to organise everything. I was so sure things would go wrong and you wouldn’t come, or wouldn’t hear me out…” His words now only dribbled out in short bursts but yet tears streamed down his face “Steve? Steve? Please tell me what you’re thinking? Please?”

Steve decided to let actions speak louder than words. Scooting his chair up to Bucky, he dried his eyes on a napkin and then kissed his eyelids. 

“Bucky. I love you. I love you more than my words can ever say. You’ve been through hell and, even when you were certain I was lost forever, you never gave up on me, not for a moment.”

“But when I…”

“Shhhh…” Steve soothed “Now it’s my turn to interrupt you, you big British dope”, causing Bucky to smile a watery smile through his tears. “When I lost you hanging from the side of that train, I thought my life was over. I’ve lived every day with the pain of regret. Not just that I couldn’t save you, but that I never had the chance to tell you just what you meant to me. When I was brought back, I was glad to be alive but it was a bittersweet moment for me, because the memories flooded back. The greatest and bravest love of my life was gone forever and I’d never get that back.”

Bucky sniffed and nodded

“Well, now heaven has given us another chance, you can be sure I’m not gonna let that go. That Church of England vicar must have done a lot of prayin’, just sayin’ “ he shrugged

Bucky giggled, his eyes wrinkling in the corners so adorably that Steve couldn’t resist kissing their lids once more.

Steve carefully slid his kisses down, via Bucky’s adorable aquiline nose, to gently caress his lips. Bucky’s eyes abruptly misted over, and his gaze pierced beyond Steve into the middle distance as if he was struggling with his memories. Steve realised his passion needed some diplomacy of its own. His lost love was found, but it was damaged and what Bucky needed the most now was gentle comfort. Carefully, Steve moved to cradle Bucky’s face in the palms of his hands, staring directly into his eyes, in reassurance that what he said he meant with every fibre of his being.

“Bucky, please believe me when I tell you this. I love you with all my heart and soul. I’m so, so proud of you for everything you’ve done, and everything you’ve become after the nightmare you’ve been through. You are a good person and you deserve so much more than you’ve gotten out of life so far. If this country has given you another chance to “patch” your life up, to “make do” with what you’ve got and to “mend” yourself, then you’ve made the right call and you have my complete support. You leave the Americans to me, you hear?”

“I doubt they’ll listen, Steve. Not with your current views on the Accords. The chances are they’d arrest me just to spite you.”

“Perhaps, but all politicians listen to money. And Tony is very rich, and even though he’s not exactly on my side with the issue at hand; he’s magnanimous enough not to hold personal grudges. Which reminds me, Mr Diplomat, what’s your position on the Sokovia Accords?

Bucky’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “My position, or Her Majesty’s Government’s position?” 

“Is there a difference?” Steve smirked

“Not really”, shrugged Bucky. “Officially we’re scrupulously neutral, BBC news-style neutral, but I know enough about my adopted country to understand that if people start reaching for the launch codes, then this poor nation’s going to be targeted so hard we’ll simply cease to exist. There’s only one effective deterrent to that kind of threat, and I’m talking to him.” 

“Ah, but you’re not talking to a deterrent” said Steve, combing his fingers through Bucky’s soft hair “You’re talking to me; you’re talking to your boyfriend” 

Planting a sweet kiss on Bucky’s soft lips, he concluded “…and whilst we’re on the subject of talking, may I just state for the record that I think that British accent of yours is incredibly sexy.”


	2. Cross my heart...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to get Tony's help to resolve Bucky's dilemma

“Hey, you stayed the whole weekend. I mean, that’s gotta be a good sign, right?” 

“Yeah, well…I needed to listen. Sometimes I don’t give people a fair hearing”

Tony eyed Steve with mock suspicion “Where’s the real Steve Rogers? What have you done with him?”

“Yeah, and I love you too…fathead” came the chuckled response

“Oh, okay forget it, you’re still an asshole”

“That’s Captain asshole to you” snapped Steve “I’m allowed to use my brain from time to time y’know? I still don’t like the Accords, but they’re a helpful position statement. We can still negotiate on them and maybe find a compromise.”

“Listening and compromise in the same breath from Captain Asshat? You’re starting to scare me a little here, buddy. Has someone been messin’ with your head?”

Steve’s expression darkened as he thought back to the love he’d left behind. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time around diplomats”, he answered, evenly. “Speaking of which, did you know who was gonna be at that meeting?”

“Some”, shrugged Tony, “I knew the NATO Secretary General and the British UN Ambassador would make an appearance, can’t remember their names offhand, but most of the rest were drones from the British and NATO civil service”

“…and the UN Ambassador’s peace aide?” asked Steve, trying to remain casual

“Er…Steve, I can’t even remember the Ambassador’s name. You think I’d know anything at all about some pencil pusher that wipes his ass?”

Steve instantly flushed with anger. He was intensely proud and protective of Bucky, and hearing him belittled after all he’d been through made him want to punch Tony right on the nose. But at least this meant one thing; Tony was clearly and genuinely ignorant of Bucky’s current identity. Now he needed to know the rest. He called up one of the official photos of the meeting on one of Tony’s beloved iPads.

“Recognise the Ambassador’s ass wiper now?” 

“Fuck!” Tony’s eyes practically bulged from their sockets “What…what the fuck?....Oh good Christ Steve, I’m…I’m so sorry…honestly I…I thought he’d be long dead by now” 

The sudden heat on Tony’s face was priceless. A man who’d put one foot in his mouth had somehow managed to jam in the second.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought” spat Steve “When were you gonna tell me about the “Winter Soldier”, buddy?”

Tony held his hands out “Look, Steve…Steve…listen to me. All we had to go on was a bunch of rumours; sightings, garbled confessions from low-level Hydra goons we’d captured who rambled on about some mysterious masked guy being smacked around and ordered about. Even if the rumours were true, and that’s a very big “if”, he up and disappeared some time in ‘88”

Tony’s voice grew quieter; more conciliatory: “So, what was I gonna say to you? “Oh, by the way Steve, the man you love with all your heart might have been turned into a Hydra contract killer in the Soviet Union but don’t worry about it because he’s probably dead by now?” Fuck, man; that would have killed you.”

Steve’s eyes teared up “Well it was true; all of it; the torture, the orders, the brainwashing, everything. And now he’s trying to pick up the pieces again…”

As best he could, Steve explained all the things Bucky had told him, both in that chintzy old café in Greenwich and later during breaks at the conference. He missed out the part about them sharing Steve’s hotel room, partly because Tony would have rightly assumed that anyway, and partly because it was so obvious: his rekindled love for Bucky shone a 10,000 watt glow through every word he spoke about him.

Tony nodded and listened carefully, his fingers steepled against his chin. When Steve had finished, Tony asked “The only thing I don’t get is how Bucky ended up working for the Ambassador in the first place. I mean, you can’t work for the British Civil Service without being British, right?”

“Oh, yeah…sorry. I mentioned Bucky looking and sounding a lot different, but I forgot to say he took up British citizenship.”

“A guy from Brooklyn? No way!”

“Well, he didn’t exactly have a choice when those pricks from the US secret service tried to ship him back to prosecute. He had to find a way to stay safe from them. Besides, he likes it there. They’ve given him a second chance, which is a good deal more than we did.”

“So, why didn’t our organisation know about this? If only I’d know, I’d have found a way to help him”

“That’s exactly what I asked”, Steve agreed “Bucky can’t be sure why, but apparently you never found out what happened. I’d guess he was just an unknown enemy assassin being taken back for trial. Under the radar even for the Stark Corporation I’d expect”

“Hmmmm…” Steve could tell this last comment had stung Tony a little. Not that he meant to do it intentionally, but he clearly felt a twinge of responsibility for that intelligence gap, especially given the mistakes he’d made earlier with the Winter Soldier. 

Sensing the moment was ripe, Steve swallowed hard and began “Tony? Do…do you think you might be able to help Bucky? Please?” Steve asked respectfully. He didn’t want to beg, but for his Bucky he’d have sunk to his knees and crawled on broken glass if that’s what it took.

Tony nodded “Steve. You’ve had the most incredible shock with all of this. And, yes, I do at least feel partly responsible. All I want is your happiness, and it’s clear that Bucky is the key to that happiness. Hey, you’re even thinking about compromising over the Accords, right?” he chuckled “What you said before was true. You’re spending way too much time around diplomats…when what you really need to do is spend your time with just one very special diplomat. You leave it with me, Pal, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

In the event, both sets of negotiations dragged on for months, but progress – though grindingly gradual – continued to be made. It didn’t take long for Tony to realise that Steve’s support for a negotiated route to the Accords was genuine. Anything that involved regular close contact with Bucky meant Steve was entirely committed, no matter how frustrating the project. This gave Tony the time he needed to sound out politicians and the military on the “Winter Soldier” situation. After the expected outraged indignation, the politicians were reasonably amenable to Tony’s entreaties (and his commitment to financially support a number of their pet projects), but he was genuinely surprised by the intransigence of the military. Several high-ranking generals seemed convinced that Bucky was some kind of major war criminal who should face a Hindenburg-style trial and any talk of PTSD was dismissed in what he considered a shockingly offhand manner. Finally, he obtained a begrudging agreement from them that, so long as Bucky remained on UN or UK “territory” then they would not actively intervene to apprehend him.

“Doesn’t sound like much a concession to me” grumbled Steve, when Tony called London to give them the news

“It isn’t. They usually grant that kind of exception to representatives of countries deliberately threatening or opposing US interests” Bucky chimed in

Tony sighed “I just wish I could understand what they’re thinking. It’s like they’re not even listening to me anymore” 

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with that patronising attitude of yours?” flashed Steve, immediately regretting his hasty words

“Hey, I’m breaking my balls this for you guys. A little appreciation wouldn’t go amiss here?”

“I know, Tony” Bucky broke in smoothly “We’re really very grateful for all your help and support. I honestly don’t think I deserve it, not after what I’ve done, but I’m sincerely thankful and I know that you’re trying your level best to make them see sense”

“Ever the diplomat” winked Steve, once the call ended.

Bucky didn’t reply. Instead he slouched down on a sofa, looking so desolate and downcast, Steve felt his heart breaking. Quickly joining his boyfriend, he asked “Do you need a hug?”

Bucky nodded sadly. The two of them held each other for the longest time.

“Oh Steve, what’s going to happen to me? I’m so afraid”

“It’s okay, Baby”, Steve soothed “nothing bad like that’s ever going to happen to you again, I promise”

“Cross your heart?” sniffed Bucky, trying to break into a hopeful smile

“Cross my heart and hope to die”

 

A month later, a new draft of the Sokovia Accords was ready. Bucky had worked on the final negotiated version long into the night. Steve had tried to help or at least to stay up and keep his boyfriend company, but the boredom of the details drove him to distraction. He’d tried to amuse himself with a book, but Bucky’s small collection of travelling literature seemed to almost entirely comprise of Shakespeare, the only writing Steve considered more boring than the Accords themselves. Halfway through Romeo and Juliet, Steve was snoring loudly.

The next day, a bleary-eyed Bucky had emailed the details over to the UN ambassador, who duly presented them at the morning session of the Security Council. Waiting for the result of the voting, Steve overheard the Ambassador thanking Bucky for all his hard work. He positively beamed to hear that his boyfriend’s efforts had been appreciated and practically leapt in the air the next day when he heard two wonderful pieces of news; first that the Sokovia Accord draft had been approved, subject to final UN council voting, and second that Bucky had been offered a double promotion.

“My beautiful British diplomat”, he purred, once the morning seminar had broken up and they were alone again. “Bucky, you’re an absolute star, I’m so proud of you I swear my heart’s gonna burst”

Bucky smiled a watery smile in return. Steve’s mood immediately deflated.

“What’s wrong, Baby?”

“I’m going to have to turn down the promotion, Steve”

“What?”

“I’d have to work at UN headquarters in New York. I’m not going to New York, not now, and – for all we know – not ever”

“But Tony….”

“Tony organised a compromise which theoretically means I’m safe on UN and British territory”, Bucky cut in, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes “That’s okay if you’re visiting for 24 hours or so, but think about it. It means I’d be able to see New York from, at most, the inside of two or three buildings, being ferried around in official diplomatic cars. I’d never be able to go outside. Why, even leaning out the window to get some fresh air could get me into trouble”

“It would if you started gasping New York air thinking it was fresh” joked Steve, desperately trying to lighten Bucky’s heavy heart “It’s obvious you haven’t been in America in over 70 years”

He realised what he’d said far too late. Bucky began to weep uncontrollably “…and I never will again, Steve”

Steve rushed to embrace his boyfriend, but Bucky pushed him away peevishly “No”, he flashed , his teeth on edge, “I won’t be comforted….because I’m…I’m not sorry…I’m not sorry at all!”

Steve stared fearfully at Bucky as he strode away, pacing up and down the deserted seminar room so furiously, Steve thought he might start to wear out the carpet. Abruptly he turned back to face Steve “I’m jolly glad I took up British citizenship. I’d much rather be a loyal subject to Her Majesty than be an outcast in a so-called democratic country that treats people like they’re criminals even…even though they couldn’t stop themselves.” Bucky’s voice, raw with anger and grief cut Steve to the very core “I don’t want this promotion. No…I don’t want it at all. In fact, I shall resign tomorrow. What’s the point of being a diplomat if you’re too controversial to even do your job properly?”

“But Bucky, the draft Accords…all your hard work. You have made a difference, you know you have. Oh, sweetheart. I beg you, just….just…think again about what you’re doing? I know you’re angry but, trust me…please, Baby, trust me? Tony will find a way, if we give him time. I just know he will.”

Bucky’s expression gradually softened out, but not into a smile, more into a blank numbness, as if he was too tired and outraged to even care anymore. Gingerly, Steve approached, as if trying not to spook a thoroughbred. Wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist gently, he held him close.

“Oh Steve”, Bucky whispered hoarsely. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Steve’s reply was strong, determined and candid “If Tony can help, then you and I will be back in Brooklyn again. If he can’t, then we’ll set up house right here, Bucky. I’ve only just found you again. You’re the love of my life; you’re my reason to be, sweetheart. I’m never giving you up, cross my heart and hope to die.”


	3. Bucky's burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve pays a visit to Bucky's favourite village, to speak with Bucky's favourite vicar!

Steve cursed under his breath for the sixth time that morning, as he glanced the edge of the curb with his rear wheel. Loathe as he was to admit it, he was begrudgingly grateful for the assistance of the built in Satnav, or he would have been truly lost, but it didn’t help him to negotiate the narrow winding country lanes any better, especially when driving on the wrong side of the road with the pouring rain misting up what the British diplomatic car pool attendant had charmingly termed, the “windscreen”. 

When the sign for “Dibley” finally appeared at the side of the road and the SatNav prissily announced, in clipped British tones “You have reached your destination”, Steve exhaled a genuine sigh of relief. The village was every bit as beautiful as Bucky had described it, even in this weather, and so miniature that in no time at all, he spotted the beautiful old Saxon church just set away from the road, with the vicarage nestled up against it. As he parked, a plump figure in a bright orange raincoat wielding an enormous battered umbrella gesticulated wildly towards him.

“Er…Reverend Grainger?” queried Steve

“Call me Geraldine”, she responded, slightly breathless “No time to lose, lets’ get out of this downpour!”

Once inside the cosy front room, stuffed with antique furniture and warmed by a roaring log fire, Geraldine launched herself into a losing battle with the zipper of her coat.

“Here let me”, offered Steve, effortlessly readjusting it for her to unzip

“Thank you”, she replied brightly. Once the coat was off, Steve could see the black shirt and dog-collar of the traditional clergyman…or, in this case, clergywoman, peeking out from over an enormous baggy sweater with a rainbow embroidered pattern. He couldn’t help but stare, and Geraldine returned the favour, looking Steve up and down with a smile, and raising her eyebrows. Steve blushed deeply and glanced away. 

“Sorry” flustered Geraldine bashfully, “It’s an old burden of mine. I have an eye for beauty, a collector’s eye you might call it” She waved her hand in the direction of the back wall, where an outdated computer sat incongruously on a Victorian credenza. Above the screen were several framed pictures, together with a series of brightly coloured children’s daubs, all renditions of the same man. “That’s my “Big J” corner”, she chuckled “Don’t worry, he’s the only man for me!”

Steve smiled back and took a seat opposite her on the big comfy sofa by the fire. Geraldine immediately started pouring the tea. He was growing accustomed, even fond, of this ceremony performed for guests the moment their behinds rested on the furniture. Geraldine was every bit as forward, eccentric and lovely as Bucky had described her. He couldn’t believe that he’d initially been reticent about calling her, when it became apparent that he wouldn’t be able to speak to Bucky’s psychologist without infringing the very strict NHS rules of patient confidentiality.

After initial pleasantries, and the British weather always made such opening conversations a breeze (if you’ll pardon the pun), Steve outlined Bucky’s predicament as impartially and politely as possible. Although he was careful to point out that Bucky had given his consent for Steve to visit and discuss these matters, he knew the mountain he had to climb for him, as a complete stranger, to earn the trust of the friendly vicar.

At length, as if reading his thoughts, Geraldine asked, “Quick question, here. Why didn’t Bucky come to me himself?”

“He was worried, ma’am”, he answered, truthfully. “He’s still feeling very emotional about all this, and he thought I’d do a better job speaking for him than he could for himself right now. Besides…” he added “…I volunteered. I was keen to meet the vicar he talks about so much.”

Geraldine coloured and batted away the compliment “Oh, please…I’m just a public servant, the same as your boyfriend. Anyway, I’m glad you volunteered. I was keen to meet the man Bucky talks about so much!”

Now it was time for Steve to blush. “He talks about me a lot?” he queried

“Does Jesus save?” grinned Geraldine “Why he’s absolutely crazy about you, Steve. He’s crazy about you the way I’m crazy about “Big J”, if that isn’t too sacrilegious a thing to say. Though as I’m the vicar I guess I can judge what’s sacrilegious or not in my own vicarage” she winked. “Seriously though, Steve, Bucky adores you. He cried and cried when he found out you were alive again. I can’t tell you what it’s meant to him for you to accept him with all his faults and have him back in your life, and your heart.”

Steve’s brow furrowed “His faults…yeah. What do you say to someone who’s done the kind of things Bucky was made to?”

“Well now…” she began, handing Steve his tea, “…you’ve hit the proverbial nail on the head there, “made to” is the pertinent phrase. Bucky was forced to do the things he did. He was forced against his will. I’m sure I’m not breaking any confidences here to say that his actions repulsed him, both when he was doing them and even more afterwards, when he was finally free.” 

“But he just doesn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t his fault”, said Steve. “It really hurts me to see how much he blames himself for the past. He folds in on himself and whatever I say or do to reassure him seems to have no effect”

Gerandine’s sighed “I can sympathise with you there, Steve. Bucky’s been traumatised for decades. That kind of self-hated can’t easily be wiped away. Helping him to see things differently is a lot of hard work. I know your love and reassurance comforts him a great deal, and I’ve tried my best to help him accept God’s love and forgiveness.”

Steve nodded. “I know Bucky’s got a deeply spiritual side, Geraldine. I’m not sure I understand, I’m not sure I even believe in God anymore, but I really want to understand, for his sake if nothing else”

“Bucky is one of those rare eccentrics in the modern world who thinks about the future as more than the linear progression from birth to death.” said Geraldine 

“I guess that’s one of the many things you have in common. Makes us more…more compatible” smiled Steve 

“He once told me that he just couldn’t ever forgive himself for what he’d done. And I told him that was a very arrogant thing to say”

Steve’s brow furrowed “Bucky’s not arrogant”

“He certainly isn’t, he’s one of the sweetest and most modest men I know. Makes a better Englishman of him, she smiled “But when God’s already forgiven him, then it’s arrogant of him to say his opinion is higher than God’s.”

“But…Bucky’s not arrogant!” Steve protested

“No, he’s afraid. Afraid of judgement, in this life and, more importantly, in the next.”

“I’ll keep him safe” grumbled Steve

“But you can’t keep him safe forever” insisted Geraldine, gently “When Bucky finally dies, you can’t be with him, no matter how hard you try.”

Steve winced at the realisation, and then slowly nodded

Geraldine smiled kindly, before continuing “Bucky’s a bit eccentric, as I’m sure you know”, Steve snorted his agreement “His favourite Bible is the King James’ version – it’s very old and riddled with “these” and “thous”, but I’m sure he gets a thrill out of trying to pronounce them all…and many of the best known Bible quotes come from its pages. There’s one passage in the Gospel of John, Chapter 14 that is his particular favourite. He often returns to it. It gives him a lot of comfort”

“Can I hear it?”

Geraldine didn’t even have to pick up the Bible. She knew it by heart:

“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”

“That’s absolutely beautiful”

“Bucky sometimes mistakes heaven for an enormous Holy clubhouse, with clubhouse rules. He thinks that because he’s broken those rules, that he’ll never get through the door. But that’s just not true. Jesus tells us that. There’s a place prepared for Bucky and you to share together, if you’d like it. It could be a swanky apartment, or it could be a cosy little cottage, but whatever it is, it’ll be home, because you’ll be there together.”

Tears pricked Steve’s eyes as he contemplated the significance of Geraldine’s profound words. Reluctantly, he forced himself back down to his present predicament.

“So how can I keep him safe until then? Bucky’s promotion should be a blessing, but it’s rapidly becoming a curse because it’s making him think about what would happen if he got arrested and taken to trial. He’d have to recall everything then. What…what does that even do to a person?”

Geraldine spoke softly, picking her words with great care. “Steve, before I started serving this quaint little village parish, I worked as a hospital chaplain. I heard some terrible things from the lips of patients and carers there. Stories of vile abuse that, even now, make me feel physically sick when I think back on them. And that’s just me hearing the details. How much more traumatic must it be for those people who actually suffered? Bucky’s talked through some of those kinds of feelings with me, and I’d imagine he’s shared even more with his psychologist, and with you of course. I can’t hide the truth from you, Steve, he’s in a lot of pain. If he’s forced to relive all that again, in the atmosphere of a formal trail…well, I don’t know what that might do to him. It’s sometimes liberating to free your thoughts when you’ve suffered that kind of deep trauma, but that only works with people you love and trust, not with a prosecutor in the glare of the world’s media.”

Tears filled Steve’s eyes as he relived the tiny fraction of the story of neglect, abuse and torture Bucky had hesitatingly revealed to him; how he had said sorry with downcast eyes after practically every sentence, how he had begged for forgiveness from Steve…as if the so-called “crimes” he had committed were his responsibility, as if the burdens of guilt and shame were his alone. Bucky was strong. He had re-invented himself, he had allowed his new British friends in to help him, when he could have just shut himself away. He had found his own way to work out his trauma, through persisting with counselling and Q’s gentle memory technique, through choosing a career dedicated to peace and negotiation, and finally through taking a chance on Steve, exposing both his pain and insecurity and making the leap of faith that the love consuming his heart would be returned, even though there were no guarantees that he wouldn’t be rejected. Bucky had done all of this, and now the American authorities threatened to take it all away from him again. He’d be damned if he’d let that happen.

He realised he’d been staring at his rapidly cooling teacup for too long. Geraldine had left him to his thoughts, returning with a book in one hand, and a large tin box in the other.

“This as a lectionary” she tapped the cover “It lists all the Bible readings for each day of the Church of England calendar and today’s Gospel reading could have been written to help you. It comes from Matthew 11:25-30. That passage ends with these words from Jesus:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest, Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light”

“You see, we all carry burdens, Steve. Some of them imposed upon us, like Bucky’s trauma; like the expectation that’s doubtless placed on your shoulders as a “symbol” for your country. But many of them we choose to place on ourselves. It’s almost perverse how we torment ourselves with things that we attach great importance to, but that aren’t really important at all. When I was training for the priesthood, I met a man who’d been in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, so you can imagine the daily horrors he’d been through. After the war, his body was broken, and he was never strong enough for manual work again, so he found an office job. Sometimes, a big boss would ring him up demanding that some little thing be carried out immediately. He’d be impeccably polite to them over the phone, set down the handset and calmly say “Tomorrow”. You see, he’d learned that no matter how urgent and important something might seem to us in the moment; it always needs to be looked at in its proper context. Compared to this man’s burden, his colleague’s urgent need for screws or paperclips or whatever he was demanding, was almost a tasteless irrelevance. 

Bucky’s trauma is a burden he’s learned to manage with great difficulty, but manage it he has, and he’ll never be able to lay that burden down in this lifetime. He can only live with it as best he can, which is what he’s done so magnificently in recent years. With other burdens there’s more of a choice. We can lay them down, as Jesus says. We can have that sense of perspective.

“That makes sense...” said Steve, “but Bucky earned that promotion. It’s a cruel fate that the country where he was born wants to rob him of it. It just seems so unfair.”

“Steve, you said earlier that you might not believe in God. Well, you may not believe in God, you may not even believe in fate, but I ask you to believe in opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” Steve queried

“Time has a habit of resolving issues that seem insurmountable at first. The opportunity to find a way out of this situation might present itself at any moment, and most probably when you least expect it. Besides, let’s be honest here. Promotion isn’t everything. All that really matters is your love for each other. That won’t change if Bucky is promoted or not – you love him for who he is, not his job title, and you want what’s best for him. That’s why you’re so upset about this promotion, because it hurts Bucky. But, Steve, I’m sure you understand that’s nothing compared to your love for each other. Living would just be existence without that. It’s the important thing; your “cake” as it were. A promotion is the “icing on the cake”: nice to have, but nothing compared to the cake itself… 

Speaking of which…” Geraldine prized the lid off the tin box to reveal a delicious looking Victoria sponge thickly sandwiched with jam and cream “…some of my parishioners are excellent bakers. Would you care for a slice?”


	4. One-way ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's defeat; Bucky's death; Steve's devastation...
> 
> Warning: something of a tearjerker

“Who the hell _**was**_ that arrogant asshole, sir?” asked the grunt 

“Stark. Fuckin’ Tony Stark” his sergeant replied. “Instantly recognisable by the “do you know who I am?” bull-crap. Fuckin’ big shot who can’t keep his mouth shut or his opinions to himself…I almost wish we were takin’ him down, instead of the one-armed bandit up there. It’d be far more satisfying to wipe that pompous smile off _**his**_ face.”

It took Tony all his willpower to stop from going back down the airplane steps to wipe the smiles off _**their**_ faces, but he was running out of time. He’d fucked up and he alone felt responsible for it. 

The plan seemed simple enough, and intelligence was watertight…or so he had thought. All the Ambassador needed was for Bucky to convince one rogue Eastern European Oligarch, who’d been threatened with the worst if he didn’t return to his own country with a favourable deal on the Accords. He’d had plenty of time to work on the documents; he’d placed Bucky on a charter flight to Walt Disney World in tourist class with the rest of the happy families. Heck, he’d even smuggled the Oligarch to a sleazy motel in the Everglades so the meeting could happen quickly, although he suspected the motel was probably too good for the Oligarch.

In the event though, he’d been screwed over by the oldest play in any conman’s repertoire, the classic “bait and switch” move. There never had been an Oligarch. He’d been manipulated on a grand scale.

He’d found the source of the leak and plugged it, but it was too late. The British Airways flight was redirected to a distant hangar on the edge of Orlando International, once the startled tourists were disembarked. 

He’d tried the legal route only to find that someone in the Pentagon had accidentally on purpose forgotten to triple countersign a single section in the agreement he had negotiated, thus rendering it utterly invalid.

Now he had no other option but to take the direct route. By a stroke of luck, he wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad, the ‘plane touched down on the late afternoon of the 3rd July. Steve was in New York busy signing things for his adoring fans prior to his birthday. Tony could only hope that he’d be too distracted by that to notice that no-one was picking up calls at Stark Tower.

 

Bucky was sitting up in First Class, the sole passenger on an empty aircraft. He didn’t have the right kind of ticket for it of course, but his immaculate fashion-sense helped him look the part and the departing cabin crew had relented, once they saw what he was mostly likely up against. Bucky was trapped. There was no diplomatic immunity on a charter flight. Only the presence of the media, temporarily silenced by a military ban on reporting, was probably keeping them from storming the ‘plane right there and then.

“Tony!” Bucky intoned warmly, gesturing to the sumptuous leather seat next to him “My, but you’re a sight for sore eyes. Please come and join me, dear chap” Bucky’s speech was ever so slightly slurred. The cabin crew had thoughtfully left him the drinks trolley to explore. It seemed like the decent thing to do for a fellow countryman down on his luck.

“I’m presuming by your presence, and that impermissibly miserable look on your face that I’m on a bit of a sticky wicket, huh?” 

“You er…could say that” Tony agreed, gingerly easing himself into the seat “I’m real sorry, buddy.”

“Have you a plan?” Bucky enquired languidly “…because I’m all out of them, and I’m rather afraid that I’m a touch too inebriated to dream up anything especially inspiring at this particular juncture anyway.” God, Tony admired Bucky’s courage, even if a little fortified by the complimentary champagne, and – it seemed – the tipsier he got, the more uproariously British he became.

“No Bucky, I haven’t got a plan. There’s…well…there’s really no way out of this one. I just couldn’t let anything happen to you without one of us being here for you.”

Bucky’s face didn’t exactly fall at the news, as Tony expected it would. Rather it softened into something philosophical, enigmatic even. Tony almost suspected Bucky was trying to conceal something deep down, but he quickly dismissed the notion. After all, Bucky had been forced to conceal feelings for years, precious treasures of his love for Steve shielded from the cruelty of Hydra handlers, their methods and machines. 

At length he said, “Don’t take it so hard, Tony”, his voice conciliatory. “You didn’t exactly twist this arm of mine to come; I walked into the trap willingly enough, to preserve the peace. Your organisation helps millions of people every day. You’ve saved the world more times than I’ve had hot crumpets, and that’s a lot. Steve says I’ll turn into a crumpet if I…” Bucky swallowed hard “Is…is Steve all right? Is Steve okay? Will he _**be**_ okay, Tony?” Tony’s heart tore to see the pain scored in Bucky’s eyes. Even now, his thoughts leapt to Steve and his happiness above that of his own.

“He’s in New York, signing autographs. Y’know, the 4th of July and all that?” 

“Ah yes, I seem to recall some little skirmish a few centuries ago” Bucky waved the entire holiday away in splendidly dismissive British fashion. “But the only thing that matters tomorrow is that Steve has a lovely birthday. I got him a card and presents and my diplomatic friends promised to personally deliver them when they flew back to New York. I don’t suppose they’ll ever be able to reach me now. Do you think you could do the honours?” He stumbled to his feet, the champagne bottle still cradled in his arm, and shuffled absent-mindedly in the overhead locker “Oh…fudge”, he screwed his eyes up trying to remember “I put them in the hold luggage. Why ever did I do such a damnably foolish thing?” 

Tony flinched as a frustrated Bucky slumped back in his seat and slammed the bottle down on his tray table with such fury that it shattered, deeply lacerating his thumb. “Oops”, he winced, meekly “…and on my “good” hand too!” His shoulders shook a little as if he were laughing, or perhaps crying, at his own particular brand of gallows humour.

Tony leaned forward “Don’t you think you should let me take a look at tha…”

“How many years did they think I was the only commando to give his life in the service of his country?” Bucky pondered, distractedly observing the bloodstain spreading lazily across the upholstery. “Too many, perhaps. Most unsporting of me to resurface. I suppose I must have been a terrible disappointment to the nation…

Well, I’ll not disappoint them a second time. I’m ready to make the sacrifice. But at least it’s my choice which country I spill the last few drops of this blood for: 

An American patriot,  
A Soviet killer,  
And a British martyr…. 

Given the extent of my atrocities, perhaps a good death is better than a bad conscience.” he concluded with a world-weary sigh.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, I’ll…try to find a diplomatic solution…if I can”, Tony suggested tentatively, but there was no power behind his words. Even he didn’t actually believe them.

“Cross your heart?” quipped Bucky

“What?”

“Private joke” Bucky smiled wistfully. “Pay it no mind.” 

Then, as quickly as it had risen, Bucky’s smile sank and his eyes narrowed, the gravity of the situation shocking him out of his brief reverie 

“There can’t be a diplomatic incident. We mustn’t endanger the Accords, much less transatlantic peace on my account. The British would be annihilated in a war; you and I both know that” 

With a pained expression clouding his face, he added, pointedly “And Tony, you do understand that if they arrest me now, they’ll break every bone in my body; that everything I’ve tried to salvage from life will be lost; that I’ll most likely go out of my damn mind?”

Tony nodded “Yes, I understand that, pal.”

Bucky placed his bloodied hand on Tony’s forearm and gripped it for a brief, but significant, moment. A shared confidence passed between the two men. Between gritted teeth, Bucky flashed him a tight brave smile, scraping up the very last dregs of his faltering courage.

Tony couldn’t take this anymore. His sense of responsibility for the situation stifled him; choked him so hard that he couldn’t get air into his lungs in the rarefied atmosphere of that aircraft cabin.

“Well, stiff upper lip to the end” Bucky declared cheerily, as Tony struggled dizzily to his feet. “Thanks so much for stopping by and waving me off, my dear friend.”

Tony smiled to himself. Bucky and Steve truly were inseparable soulmates, star-crossed lovers destined for one another from birth. God, they were so much alike. Just as Steve had wrapped himself up in the Star Spangled Banner, so now Bucky expertly reprised his boyfriend’s role, only with the Union Jack; seamlessly transforming into the quintessential doomed British hero. He hated to burst Bucky’s perfect bubble, but he also understood that, beneath the breast of every brave legend, a vulnerable human heart beats, and yearns…and regrets. 

Inseparable soulmates they may be, but separation loomed ominously close. There was precious little time left. Tony stopped and turned to his friend “Bucky, do you…do you have any message you’d like me to give to Steve?”

All pretence crumbled in an instant. With a stifled cry, Bucky fixed his gaze on Tony, his eyes glistening with unshed tears “What can I say to the better part of me, the part I leave behind? Tell my Stevie I love him with all my heart and all my soul. Tell him he’s always given my life meaning, warmth and hope. Tony, he really is my everything… and my love for him will _**NEVER**_ die…” 

He paused for a moment and concluded, choosing his words carefully “Tell him…tell him I’ve gone to prepare a place for us, and that I’ll be waiting for him on the other side. He’ll know exactly what that means.”

 

 

Steve was busily helping himself to a second round of birthday breakfast pancakes when a voice from the TV screen caught his attention:

“…breaking news from Orlando International Airport indicates that the suspect, thought to be James Buchanan Barnes, was apprehended just after midnight Eastern Standard Time” The reporter continued “Barnes, childhood friend and former ally of Captain America was alleged to have become the notorious assassin “The Winter Soldier”, implicated in the mass murder of dozens of innocent civilians in the former Soviet Union during a thirty year period from the 1950’s through to the late 1980’s.”

By the time Steve had looked up from the shattered plate at his feet, and bounded to the sofa, the news footage had cut to a very smug looking army colonel basking in the full glare of a hastily assembled press conference. 

“Having received assent to storm the aircraft on 4th July at 12:10am, we deployed stun grenades to neutralise the suspect prior to arrest. In the event, such precautions proved unnecessary. Through a careful analysis of the evidence at the scene, we have concluded, subject to medical confirmation, that the suspect committed suicide by the ingestion of a cyanide capsule, shortly before our assault commenced.”

 

 

Even though he was fully expecting it, Tony still shuddered at the shock wave from the excruciating scream that reverberated through every floor of Stark Tower.

 

 

He took the lift from his office down to the apartment a few hours later. He figured seeing Steve immediately wouldn’t be the smartest of moves, but in the same respect he didn’t want him to feel more alone than he already was for too long either. Crowds of well-wishers outside Stark Tower eagerly awaiting autographs were fed the story that Captain America had been called away to deal with a national emergency of the utmost secrecy. Most swallowed that bait greedily enough, content in the knowledge that Cap’ was busy with patriotic deeds during the course of his, and America’s, special day.

 

If Tony was expecting histrionics, or even anger, then he was mistaken. 

 

“Why didn’t he call me?” the question was deathly quiet with a razor-sharp edge that cut deep into his conscience. Maintaining a respectful distance from the seated figure staring off into space, shadow silhouetted against the backdrop of midday-drawn curtains, Tony hesitated briefly, but chose the candour of self-disclosure, even at the risk of Steve’s wrath.

“You know that I was there with him, towards the end, right?”

He saw the figure flinch, as if jolted by an electric shock, then turn slowly to face him.

“Then why didn’t YOU call me?” The volume of Steve’s voice didn’t rise by so much as a single decibel. Honestly, Tony would have preferred his screaming and shouting to this numbing coolness.

“We were double-crossed, Steve, and by our own people too. People on my payroll. I was responsible for this, I thought I could turn it around, even at the eleventh hour. I couldn’t.”

“You must have known that before you saw him, though. My question still stands. Why didn’t you _**call**_ me?”

Tony’s eyes misted slightly, replaying the events of the night before in his mind. His voice almost took on the ethereal far-off quality of an ancient chronicler recalling his fondest legend.

“God, oh how I wish you could have seen him, Steve.” Tony gulped, tears pricking the backs of his eyes “He was…he was so goddamn BRAVE. Damnit, he knew the British couldn’t save him; that he was trapped. He knew he was gonna die. Either die or lose his fuckin’ mind to those assholes. Fuckin’ hell of a choice.”

A choked sob escaped the silhouette as Tony pressed on:

“If he’d heard your voice, do you think he’d have been able to go through with it? Damn, he’d be strapped to a table in some hell-hole military hospital basement having ECT endlessly drilled through his fuckin’ skull. And the Accords? Well, all of his work would be down the pan. And what about kidnapping a British citizen, whatever his alleged crimes, without due process? For all we know, we might have had a new war of independence on our hands, declared right now, on the 4th of fuckin’ July. Granted, his little island wouldn’t have stood a chance, but how many lives would have been lost in the process? And who would Cap’ have been rooting for? Hell, who would he even have been _**fighting**_ for?”

The figure rose from the chair and stumbled towards Tony. He’d never seen Steve like this. The pain etched on his face was unbearable enough for Tony to witness, let alone for Steve to wear. 

“Did he….did he at least ask for me?”

“Fuck!” Tony spat harshly “Christ Steve, what d’you fuckin’ think? You were _**all**_ he talked about, all he cared about, all he wanted. He called you his “everything”. He loved you more than his own life…and you wanna know the truth, Steve? That’s what killed him.”

Tony didn’t see the blow to his chin, but he sure as hell felt it.

Rising from his knees, he was about to wipe the blood away with his sleeve, when he remembered something else. He held his arm out “You see that?, he snorted, angrily. “That’s Bucky’s blood. He did that to himself, man, and that was just in his frustration when he realized he couldn’t give you your goddamn birthday present because it was in the hold.”

Steve’s expression shifted imperceptibly from impassive to stunned.

“Bucky loved you more than he loved himself. That’s what true love is Steve. I goddamn know you understand that because you’d have done the same for him”

“In a heartbeat” said Steve, so instinctively his brain didn’t even register the words until he’d spoken them.

“He sacrificed his own life because he knew what would happen if they’d taken him alive. He knew the pain it would cause you to see him fracture and disintegrate, with all his good work scattered like dust to the wind. He’d rather have died a hundred times than hurt you.”

Steve swallowed “I…I know, Tony.”

Tony placed an arm gently on Steve’s shoulder. “If it’s any consolation at all, your Bucky died like a frickin’ hero of the British Empire, pal; all stiff-upper-lip and bulldog spirit, dressed to the nines and toasting fate with a champagne flute in his hand. He had me swear to tell you he loved you and always had, he said he’d be preparing a place for you on the other side and that you’d understand what that meant. Steve, buddy, your boyfriend waved me off that ‘plane so damn happy, you’d have thought he’d just won a one-way ticket to paradise.

 

 

There was little left to do. Time slowed to treacle for Steve. A few reporters attempted to penetrate Stark Tower in an effort to interview someone, hell anyone about this obscure and hitherto unknown British diplomat’s links to Captain America and the Sokovia Accords. In response, Tony released a pinched statement confirming that the aforementioned peace envoy, allegedly implicated in Soviet atrocities, was indeed linked to Captain America by virtue of being a former member of the Howling Commandos, but that he had played only a very minor diplomatic role in securing the Sokovia agreement. 

In a further bid to rescue the Accords and preserve the tentative peace between the U.S. and British governments, a statement from the Pentagon confirmed that Peace Aide Barnes, a naturalised British citizen, had been the unhappy victim of a most tragic case of mistaken identity. 

The sole concession Steve was able to squeeze out of this base hypocrisy was a commitment from the coroner not to request his body for the purpose of a formal autopsy examination. Several times Bucky had expressed an undiluted terror of being butchered whilst still alive; probably a nightmare from his hellish existence under Hydra’s mind control, so Steve relished the grim satisfaction of being in a position to grant his love at least some dignity in death. 

Bucky’s return flight home was booked, and Steve was on it, complimentary First Class, British Airways.

 

Shortly afterwards, he had been both comforted and saddened to receive Bucky’s personal items from the flight. He’d assumed rightly that Bucky had no further next of kin, and some bureaucrat somewhere had actually listened to Tony this time; had given their relationship sufficient respect to forward that luggage, already thoroughly picked over by the security services, to his grieving boyfriend.

Bucky hadn’t packed much, but then he hadn’t needed to. He wasn’t even meant to spend the night in Florida in case he was betrayed. In the event, he’d been betrayed before he’d even booked his London black cab to the airport, but Steve didn’t like to think about that. 

He had bags to unpack.

 

Bucky’s carry-on bag was chiefly dedicated to files of tidy paperwork, some still neatly tied together with official British legal system pink ribbon; the diplomatic documents he guessed were brought so he could commune with the fake Oligarch that the American secret service had dangled in front of him. Also in there were a few choice toiletries for him to freshen up with and a screwed up polo shirt and soft cotton trousers suitable for comfort during the flight. Tony had described what he’d been wearing in First Class, so he could only assume Bucky had opted to change and dress in his finest for…

Steve shook away the urge to weep and reached for his hold luggage. Again, there wasn’t very much. The modest case contained another two emergency sets of clothing (including a beautiful black barathea tuxedo, no doubt influenced by a certain retired spy of their acquaintance); a copy of his King James Bible, with a bookmark placed in John 14 he was gratified to note; and something that looked almost out of place in the tastefulness of his other choices, a gaudy red white and blue plastic bag. Inside were two gorgeously wrapped presents elegantly trimmed with ivory satin ribbon and a birthday card, none of which seemed to have been violated by the authorities he was happy to notice (although he was pretty sure everything would have been thoroughly scanned and x-rayed). Both presents bore tags inscribed in Bucky’s neat copperplate handwriting, saying “Happy Birthday, honey. Love from your Bucky xxx”. 

 

Bucky had even drawn two little love hearts entwined beneath the kisses. Expressed through those elegant pen-strokes, Bucky had crossed his heart and hoped to die for Steve one last time. 

But no hearts and flowers had dignified his ending. Bucky had suffered and died shaking, bleeding and alone up there, with a cyanide capsule poised between his clenched teeth. 

Steve couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors his love must have endured in those brutal final moments. He hadn’t been there to comfort and reassure Bucky, at the very time when he needed his boyfriend’s love the most.

Steve fell into inconsolable weeping. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop the tears, but eventually, exhausted and numbed, he returned to Bucky’s gifts, carefully unfurling the wrapping paper. Bucky’s first present was his personal copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet – the very one Steve had fallen asleep trying to read in that hotel room in London when Bucky was preparing the final Sokovia draft. Steve smiled sadly at the thought of him trying to stay awake for his busy boyfriend, and failing so miserably. The book itself was worthless but what it represented was absolutely priceless, a defining moment of their relationship captured forever in time. And now all Steve had were his memories. Bucky couldn’t possibly have guessed the added poignancy of this at the time he wielded that wrapping paper, could he? He breathed in the pages. They even smelled of him: sweet cologne, starched shirt-collar and just the faintest whiff of hot buttered crumpet.

The second present was a complete mystery to Steve. It was a jar of finest English mincemeat: the sweet kind you occasionally ate in Thanksgiving pies and the staple ingredient of the smaller mince pies traditionally eaten in the British Christmas holidays. For a July birthday, he’d be damned if he could work out why Bucky would have chosen such an unseasonal gift, which might have even been seized by customs had the jar of the seal been accidentally broken. Luckily it hadn’t. Steve wondered if it was some kind of joke present, or had some cultural significance he couldn’t quite grasp without it being explained to him? He’d have to ask…he…he wished he could have asked Bucky about that, he corrected himself.

Finally, his smartphone had been returned to Steve wrapped in cellophane and a clinical-smelling plastic evidence bag. The secret service hadn’t even been particularly subtle about this one. You could still see thick traces of fingerprint dust in the corners of the screen and the case itself, permanently imprinted with Bucky’s bloodstained palm, felt out of alignment; warped and sprained from mechanical probing. Steve sighed and switched on. The security settings had been disabled. “That figures”, he mumbled to himself. As with the luggage, there wasn’t much to look at. Just a few pieces of classical music Bucky had downloaded – all the British favourites; Elgar, Vaughan-Williams, and lots of the plaintive Church of England choral evensong Bucky had grown to love so much.

The only other “evidence” left (and you could be sure it had been treated that way) was Bucky’s call list. He scrolled through the calls from his last day on earth. Just three calls were displayed. The first was to him. Instantly his mind flashed back to Buck’s comedy rendition of “Happy Unbirthday to you”, in his luxuriant British accent deliberately sung half a semitone out of tune. It had made him laugh so hard. Steve had booked a London flight for the following weekend and Bucky had talked about all the fun things they could do together with such infectious enthusiasm. He remembered it as if it was yesterday. Hell, it pretty much was yesterday…but Steve would have a lifetime of replaying Bucky’s last call to him in his head.

The second call was to a London number, shortly after his scheduled touchdown. Steve instantly recognised it. It was the special number that Bucky had deliberately shared with him; the number Bond had given him to call if something went horrendously wrong; the emergency number. Steve kept it too so he could call if Bucky was in danger. Well, he wouldn’t be needing that any more, he thought bitterly. Not as if the British could have done very much anyway in the short space of time Bucky had left. He must have known his fate was sealed from the moment the troops surrounded his ‘plane.

The final call wasn’t to Stark Tower, as he’d guessed it would be. But then, thinking about it logically, Tony would already have seen him by then. 

No, that final call was made only a few minutes before midnight; just before the troops finally stormed Bucky’s ‘plane. It took him a little while to remember the quaint British geographical number codes and then it hit him.

This was a Dibley number.

At last Steve understood. Bucky must have known he couldn’t save his body if he resisted, or his mind if he surrendered. More terrified of the nightmares of mental anguish than the yawning mouth of oblivion, he had chosen the only honourable way out for a British gentleman. But there, in those final moments, knowing all else was lost, he’d desperately tried to save the one thing those bastards couldn’t take from him: his soul. Steve sank to his knees and wept sharp bitter tears of realisation that, resigned to his fate, Bucky had anxiously sought an absolution to prepare his tortured soul for death. He could only hope that Geraldine had been able to give him peace, comfort, and maybe some of that forgiveness he’d so vigorously denied himself in life but which he had so richly deserved.

The card, Jesus he’d forgotten the card. With indecent haste, Steve tore open the envelope. Bucky’s birthday message glowed with his love for Steve, although a reference to loving Steve 53,285 times more than mincemeat smacked of that cryptic joke that would most likely evade explanation for the rest of his life. Still, it rang true with Bucky’s effortless command of British quirkiness. The image on the front of the card depicted one of those picture-perfect, chocolate-box lid representations of a traditional English country cottage, with the thatched roof and the quaintly crooked window frames and the honeysuckle growing round the door. Bucky had asked whether he and Steve might one day buy a house like that together, and set up home somewhere cosy where no-one knew them. He’d even been to the Estate Agent in Dibley to look at a few brochures, he’d said. It was a fond dream, one that Steve had dearly wished he’d been able to fulfil for his boyfriend. But now he wasn’t dreaming any more. He was starkly awake, more awake than he cared to be. He longed to be asleep, asleep beside his Bucky.

 

“Hey Tony?”

“Yeah Steve?” Tony replied enthusiastically, eagerly trying to be of help

“Where’d ya think did Bucky got that cyanide capsule from?”

“Are…you really sure you want to know that?” he cautioned tentatively

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise” flashed Steve

“Well…I dunno” said Tony, scratching the back of his head “I didn’t even think they were a “thing” anymore. They were popular enough during the war, sure, but I can’t believe Bucky was able to squirrel one away for that long, plus if he’d kept it on him, the cryo would have shattered the glass. Perhaps the British gave it to him later? You know, just in case?”

“Oh…okay”, Pausing for a moment, Steve followed this up with a sheepish question “You think you’d be able to fix me up with one of those? You know, just in case?”

“Don’t even think it, Rogers” snarled Tony.

“As if you could stop me if I wanted to”, muttered Steve, under his breath

“If you’re referring to what Bucky said” Tony continued, evenly “I can assure you that at no point did he stipulate a time frame for “when he’d have that place ready for you on the other side”

“And which side might that be?” quipped Steve

“That’s a damn fine point” Tony conceded “There’s more than one dimension out there”

Steve sighed, weary from the stress of his grief “Sometimes, I kinda feel one-dimensional here, Tony. Captain America’s a poster boy and who wants to be trapped in a poster?”

“Then why don’t you unpeel for a while?”

“Huh?” Steve furrowed his brow

“What I mean is, if you ever wanted to ship out of Stark Tower and settle somewhere else until your head clears, then I sure as hell wouldn’t get all pissy about it. Provided you let me teach you how to use a goddamn computer to stay in touch, that is” he added, with an affectionate smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in the kind of Church of England choral evensong I envisage was on Bucky's smartphone playlist, Henry Walford Davies' "De Profundis" has the appropriate tone for this chapter. I'd recommend sampling a little whilst reading if you wish, and you can listen on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zBnJg13dmE


	5. Star crossed lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve attends Bucky's funeral, and gets a surprise

Steve considered Tony’s suggestion to take a leave of absence ever more seriously, the higher that stinking heap of humiliation was piled onto poor Bucky’s memory.

As a general rule, US morticians embalm everything that doesn’t have a pulse, whereas British undertakers forgo formaldehyde in favour of refrigeration. The US authorities accorded with the British tradition at precisely the time they shouldn’t have.

Consequently, by the time his coffin, draped in a Union Jack, was ceremonially carried from the cargo hold, the stench was overpowering. Having treated Bucky like garbage from the moment he re-emerged from Hydra’s grasp, his former countrymen had literally turned him INTO garbage.

Thankfully, the practice of funeral homes and half-open coffins were alien to the more discrete British way of death. They burned Bucky up quickly, what was left of him at any rate. The only regret Steve had was that he’d never get to kiss his love goodbye.

Despite this, the formal funeral ceremony managed a gratifying air of restrained dignity. Before he even left the airport, Steve learned that Bucky had been practically guaranteed a posthumous knighthood in the Queen’s forthcoming New Year’s honours list for services to peace. Steve reckoned Bucky would have exploded if anyone had dared call him “Sir James Buchanan Barnes”. How he would dearly have loved to have teased Bucky shamelessly about that.

As there wasn’t a coffin to bear any more, Bucky’s little wooden cremation casket was carried down the aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral on a vermillion velvet cushion, by the most angelic-looking boy chorister you ever saw, all frills, ruffs and apple cheeks. Bucky loved his choral music and Steve thought he’d have got a real kick out of his choice of bearer. He’d even been able to choose the passage from John’s Gospel with the mansions in it for Bucky’s service. The only fly in the ointment was that Geraldine had been excluded from the formal guest list because she hadn’t been considered an important enough dignitary by some class-conscious bureaucrat in the Foreign Office. Steve was still in New York when the invitations had been sent out, and it was too late for him to do anything about it when he was back in London. Although he hadn’t expected a large turn-out, the nave was nearly full; mostly diplomats, embassy staff, civil servants and a smattering of middle-ranking politicians. Steve didn’t really take much notice of any of them, nor do more than politely acknowledge their condolences to him afterwards. There was at least one guest though; who Steve was genuinely happy to see.

“And how are you coping, Mr Rogers?”

“James Bond, as I live and breathe!” Steve smiled weakly, leaning into the old man’s unsteady embrace.

James glanced around at the rapidly dissipating congregation “Parasites, lickspittles”, he hissed dismissively. “Only the UN Ambassador himself had the decency to adequately contribute to that collection plate” Steve had nominated donations in lieu of flowers for a local charity that helped young survivors of trauma. He felt that Bucky would have approved of his choice.

“May I have the honour of buying you a drink?” James asked.

At the nearest pub, Steve chose a table whilst James ordered the first round. Handing him a pint, he said “I’m guessing you could do with something to slake your thirst”

Steve smiled and took a sip. It was strong and oh so very bitter. He kinda liked it.

For the first few minutes, Steve enjoyed the customary British introductions, general talk about the weather and so forth. He missed the carefree and unconcerned familiarity of such talk, and could well understand why Bucky had come to enjoy it so much. After that, Steve summarised the arrangements for the funeral thus far.

“Bad business about Geraldine” grumbled James

“Yes, but now that theatre’s over I’ve arranged for his casket to be buried at Dibley parish church later this week. Would you care to come?”

“Why, I’d be honoured to join you” said James 

 

 

They were met at the vicarage door. The weather was warm and sunny, well as sunny as it could be for an English village in early July. Dark clouds scooted across the sky, but all was dissipated by Geraldine’s dazzling smile.

Today her priestly garb was smothered by a lime green sweater with little frogs knitted on it. “Another gift from a parishioner” she admitted “She’d be mortified if I didn’t wear it at least once a week, and today’s Tuesday”

“Is that significant?” asked James

“Absolutely. She goes to collect her pension on a Tuesday morning so she’s sure to see me if we pass by the Post Office. Come along, now!”

Geraldine led the way on an eclectic tour of the village, pointing out broken fences that cows had crashed through, shabby hedges that sheep had tucked into and the occasional lavatorial reference to back garden sanitation in some of the older cottages. “Yes, I used to have a privy myself, when I was younger”, she observed “Once a week the night soil men would come by early in the morning to empty it”

“Don’t tell me you had to wear a special sweater for them too?” joked James as a wildly eccentric looking lady with what appeared to be a multicoloured tea cosy on her head waved to Geraldine from the post office pension queue.

A few steps from the Post Office, Geraldine stopped and swung open the gate to a sweet little thatched cottage just opposite the village duck pond with quaintly crooked window frames and honeysuckle growing round the door. “There you go”, she said brightly, offering a bunch of mismatched keys to Steve.

“What’s this?”

“In my Father’s house are many mansions, Steve, and this is yours. Bucky bought it for you with a suitcase full of cash given to him by Mr Stark over a month ago. He had the builders in to start some renovations and I must say I think they’ve done a splendid job so far. Why, you’ve even got an indoor privy now! Come take a look if you don’t believe me?”

Shakily, Steve edged a big brass key into the front door. The latch yielded with a satisfying click. Steve walked in to the sweetest little room he’d ever caught sight of in his life. A cosy fireplace, all ready to be lit, was the central feature. Sturdy leather armchairs were drawn up towards it, and beyond lay a solid oak dining table and a sweet little Welsh dresser with blue and white porcelain stacked neatly in the racks.

Bucky had prepared a place for his boyfriend. He had his dream and, like so many of Bucky’s dreams, he had made it come true. All that was missing was the dreamer of the dream, his love, his Bucky.

Steve’s bottom lip began to quiver. He sat down heavily on the leather Chesterfield sofa and put his face in his hands. James and Geraldine glanced furtively at each other, their puzzled expressions curdling to dreadful realisation…

“I thought he knew” hissed Geraldine petulantly, just out of Steve’s earshot

Once more, Steve just felt empty and bitter. Geraldine didn’t strike him as being particularly insensitive, but surely it was obvious that showing him the home his boyfriend had bought for them to share together just before his funeral was just a tad gauche? He smiled wryly to himself. The more he stayed around the British, the more he thought like them.

In a valiant effort not to appear ungrateful, especially to the individual who was to bury Bucky in a few hours, he decided now was a good time to distract himself with that puzzling question of Bucky’s joke present. As if on cue, James asked

“Penny for them?”

“Actually I was thinking about some things I didn’t understand about what Bucky gave me for my birthday. I was wondering…do you guys think you’d be able to shed any light on them for me?”

“I’ll try”, ventured James, as Geraldine expelled an involuntary sigh of relief

“It’s all very peculiar. Bucky gave me a copy of a Shakespeare play and…erm… a jar of mincemeat”

“Fascinating”, said James, cocking an eyebrow

“…and he wrote something really unusual in my birthday card, about loving me hundreds of times more than mincemeat. Is this some kind of odd British custom, I’m not aware of?”

“If that’s the case, then I’m not aware of it either” he confirmed “So, humour me, here. How many hundreds of times did Bucky say he loved you more than mincemeat?” 

“Just a minute, let me check” Steve had brought the card and the book with him, although he had wisely elected to leave the mincemeat at home. “Here we go, 53,285 times more than mincemeat”

“He must really have loved you”, Geraldine chimed in “Either that or he must really have hated mincemeat…or both, of course” she shrugged as an afterthought 

“May I?” James reached for the Shakespeare and started leafing through the pages.

“Act 5, Scene 3, verse 285” James mused “We still have known thee for a holy man”

“That doesn’t make any sense” groaned Steve

“It’s what Prince Escalus says to Friar Lawrence, the priest who married those “star crossed lovers” Romeo and Juliet, helping arrange for Juliet to take a sleeping draught that made her appear dead so she could escape with her husband.

The Prince is saying that the Friar is a good person, even though his scheme failed, because Romeo mistakenly thought Juliet was truly dead. He drank poison when he saw her apparently lifeless body.”

“That’s…uncanny”, said Steve, “…bearing in mind how Bucky died.” 

“Uncanny indeed…” Geraldine echoed “…sounds to me like Shakespeare could have provided us an opportunity to find our way out of a very difficult situation. But tell me, James, what’s all this got to do with mincemeat?” 

 

A few press photographers took furtive snaps from behind the churchyard wall. It was only to be expected given the name on the headstone, but fortunately none of them had recognised Steve in his mourning suit. 

“Operation Mincemeat”, mumbled James under his breath, as they lowered the casket into the ground “…planted false invasion documents on a random dead body made up to look like a British officer. It completely fooled the Nazis in 1943.”

“So, whose body was this?” hissed Steve

“No body’s” quipped Geraldine, almost losing her straight face to the awful pun.

 

Having repaired to the vicarage, Steve complained “Well I think that’s pretty tasteless. That had to be somebody’s son.”

“Not unless anyone’s claiming paternity for 200 pounds of condemned luncheon meat”, said Bucky, expertly balancing a tray groaning with tea, cake and heap of delicious-looking sandwiches on his arm.

“Well, that explains the smell” James winced

“You be quiet, Sir Dipstick of Dibley”, huffed Steve at Bucky “Have you any idea how many tears I shed for you?”

“I’m sorry love, but honestly they could easily have been genuine tears. Our triple-cross was a very high-stakes gamble. If that drug hadn’t worked properly, or the soldiers had wanted to carve me up to take trophies, or that coroner had absolutely insisted on an autopsy, then I’d be as good as luncheon meat myself right now.”

“I know baby. I’m sorry. C’mere” said Steve, affectionately pulling Bucky onto his lap.

“Well I do hope the meat in these sandwiches isn’t condemned” warned Geraldine, snaffling a bite “I’m far too pretty and elegant to be sick, and I certainly don’t want a bad tummy to spoil my appetite at your mansion….I mean, house warming party. Village gossip has it that Bucky can really cook up a storm.”

“Oh, that he can” grinned Steve, caressing Bucky’s face gently “That…he…can!”

James arched an eyebrow of mock outrage at the shameless display of affection.” To coin a Shakespearean phrase, “All’s well that ends well”, he concluded.

 

 

The end

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This was my very first FanFic and I'm not sure how well I did. Please feel free to add some comments,suggestions and perhaps a little word of encouragement if you can spare it, and I'll try and write more in the future.


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